


You and Mickey

by darkandstormyslash



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Belting, Edging, Fighting, M/M, Military Kink, Orgasm Denial, POV Second Person, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex, Somnophilia, Spanking, dubcon, handjob, just a bit of fun really :), kinks to be added, standalone chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 00:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15852471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: This is a series of random stand-alone chapters featuring an unnamed man ("You") and Mickey having bits of kinky sex, and a few arguments, and generally knocking around a small house together. Set in season 9 and written in second person present tense.Chapter 1: Post-spankingChapter 2: Military kink and sexual fantasies about IanChapter 3: A little bit of edging and bondage playChapter 4: The boys have an arguementChapter 5: A bit of aftercareChapter 6: Sleepy MickeyChapter 7: Mickey reacts to some of the events in S9Chapter 8: Mickey leaves





	1. Start the Fire

You watch Mickey pull out a cigarette with shaking hands, watch him wincing as the mess you’ve made of his ass makes contact with the wood of his chair. The twist of his face gives you a deep throb of lust, followed quickly by a strong stab of guilt. All his life Mickey’s been knocked around and mistreated and now here’s you, knocking him round even further.

“Holy fuck, where the hell did that come from?”

You shrug, a bit stupidly. Once you started laying into that plump round little arse it was very difficult to stop. Maybe things got a bit carried away. Slowly, you lay the cane down on the bed. Mickey’s eyes flicker towards you and his mouth twists up, “Saving it for later, huh?”

The red lines are prominent on his ass, even against the background red you painted on with your hand. It doesn’t help that the rest of his skin is so pale, or at least it should be pale if it weren’t covered in a layer of sand, grime and bruising. It’s hard to tell sometimes which is which. There’s a mark on his inner thigh which is definitely not dirt, but that’s the only one you can lay full claim to. The rest of them have been picked up from somewhere else, from grubby rooms and dirty people.

It doesn’t feel good, hurting him. Or rather it feels fucking fantastic in the moment to have Mickey squirming and gasping under you, to hear the edge of pain in his cries and feel the tightness of his body constricting into yours. That choked up noise he makes that he swears isn’t a sob, the catch in his throat as he starts to hit his limits, the whimpering noise that happens just as his hard cock starts to dip, as the edges of it fade from not-enough-pleasure into too-much-pain, you can’t get enough of it. But when the moment fades and you’re just standing there, watching the marks you’ve left on his skin and the blood on his face – that doesn’t feel so good. You know the names they have for guys that like to beat around guys like Mickey. Beat them and fuck them. Now you’ve done both.

Mickey blows out a stream of smoke, eyes still glancing sideways towards you, unsure. It breaks your heart that he still looks to you for confirmation, as if he’s done something wrong. It makes you want to snap a hand across his face or a fist in his gut just to stop that twist in your insides.

“You okay?” you ask, too late. Far too late.

The uncertainty fades from his face a little, “Fucking hell man, where did you learn that?”

You shrug, unwilling to reveal just how long you’ve fantasised about bending him over and caning the shit out of his ass. You feel a bit embarrassed, and try to cover it by stepping forward and cupping a hand over his ass.

It still feels hot. Hot? It’s practically burning. Mickey squirms under your hands and suddenly you lean forward impulsively and kiss him, precisely because you know he’s still not quite comfortable with kisses.

True to form, he makes a face, turning his head away, “Fucks sake, I thought you didn’t wanna kiss me while I smoked?”

“Do you want another spanking for smoking?” It’s a joke. A half-joke. Schrödinger’s joke. You’ll decide if it’s a joke depending on whether he’s into it.

Mickey gives a little shiver and looks down. It’s not a joke. “Yeah, yeah give me a minute man I’m still struggling to sit down here.”


	2. American soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this chapter what started off as an excuse for me to fantasise about doing terrible things to Mickey Milkovich started to coalesce into something with actual form and structure. In this chapter I realised we were post season 8. There's no actual Ian here - but he's still very much a major player in Mickey's thoughts.

It’s always fun watching Mickey look guilty, and his face as he slams the laptop shut is a picture. You give a grin, shaking your head as you tug off your hi-vis work jacket, “You watching porn without me?”

“Ah fuck off. Thought you were working late.”

“Bust open a sewer pipe. It’s not getting cleared today, so Carlos said we could knock off.” You come around and open the laptop, raising your eyebrows at the sight of two buff men in half a military uniform each doing press-ups. “Soldiers, huh?”

“Ah fuck _off_...” Mickey looks embarrassed and you suddenly grin as you remember something.

“Wasn’t your ex in the army?”

“Yeah, yeah, for about five minutes.” The embarrassment deepens on his face and you shut the computer again, grabbing at his wrist and pulling him close. “He never even got deployed.”

You try to avoid talking about Mickey’s ex. It’s a bit of a sore point for both of you. You know his name is ‘Ian Galagher’ because you’ve seen it in the shitty prison tattoo carved into Mickey’s skin, and sometimes you can see it ghosted out in Mickey’s breath when he cums. You don’t _mind_ exactly, you and Mickey both have history, hell you and Mickey both have wives somewhere, but you can’t help wondering whether the Ian in Mickey’s head bears any resemblance to the actual Ian – out there somewhere and probably unaware of just how much Mickey still dreams of him.

You take Mickey’s other wrist, pulling him in close towards you. “You like the idea of it though? Him in the army? Him in that uniform?”

Mickey squirms and you press yourself forward, your hardening cock nudging up against his own. “You’d get eaten alive in the army Milkovich. That what you want? A gang of big burly soldiers beating you into a corner, kicking you down?”

“H-he wasn’t a soldier…” Mickey’s eyes are challenging, and his cock ruts up back against yours. “He was officer class.”

“Oh … officer class.” You mimic back in his accent and he rolls his eyes, “So he wouldn’t be there among the men, huh? Not there while you get the shit kicked out of you in a corner by five big guys in camo.”

Mickey’s hands twist out of your grip and move to the front of his jeans, working frantically to release his cock and yours, “Y-yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Keep going, fuck.”

You yank down the back of his jeans and grab at two good handfuls of that plump pale backside. “They’d fuck you up, knock you down, then start pulling their cocks out. They’d be laughing and joking about it, calling you all kinds of names.”

Mickey’s eyes flutter closed, his hand slides around the two cocks and you suddenly find it a lot harder to speak. Not that you’re going to stop though, not when Mickey looks so gorgeous lost in a fantasy you’re creating.

“You fight back, and they kick you down.” You murmur, “Then just as the biggest one there slaps your face with his nine inch cock … he walks in.”

“Ian…” Mickey gasps like a prayer.

“Ian Galagher, officer class.” You confirm, your nails digging harder into his butt until his face twists a little in pain. “Standing there in front of them, arms folded, full uniform.”

“He hits him.” Mickey gasps back, and you can’t help a smile, reaching in to kiss his neck gently. Mickey’s imagination doesn’t run to complex fantasies or mental creations. He’s direct, obvious, and you find it endearing.

“Yeah, of course. Hits him right in the gut. Then takes them all on while you’re in a beat little huddle on the floor. Fights them all off for you.”

“Fuuuuuu-“

“Once they’ve run, he turns to you…” You hesitate, not sure whether Mickey wants to be comforted or taken care of or what. You honestly aren’t sure how the relationship between them worked.

“He wants me.” Mickey gasps.

“He wants you.” You confirm, your voice hitching as Mickey’s hands speed up. “You can see it in his eyes. He strides over and you know he’s going to fuck you.”

“B-boot on my back.” Mickey manages. “Cock in my ass.”

Mickey’s fantasies don’t always make perfect logistical sense. He’s after sensations, feelings, all the bits of what he wants all mashed together. You give up trying to work out exactly how Mickey’s ex is contorting his body to make this work and just run with it. “Fist in your hair, boot on your back. And you can feel his cock just stretching you out.”

“Oh yeeeeeah.”

“He pounds you into the floor…” but there’s no need to continue much further. Mickey gives a cry and his hand tightens and you obligingly squeeze as hard as you can as his ass while he cums all over your cock.

He slumps against your body, head resting on your shoulder, body pressed against yours. His hand rests lightly on your cock, and you nudge him a little with your shoulder.

“Hey, keep going.”

He mumbles something and buries his face in your neck.

“Keep going, soldier.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, then Mickey’s hand starts moving again.


	3. Close to the edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: edging, orgasm denial, attempts to get Mickey to obey orders, and the end skirts quite close to the wrong side of dubcon...

There’s probably proper equipment you can get for this kind of thing. Leather straps, quick-release clips soft fluffy handcuffs and shit. But you and Mickey don’t have equipment, or anywhere to buy it, or any money, so instead Mickey’s wrists and ankles are tied to the rickety iron frame of the bed with a few hand-wraps, with a teatowel over his eyes as a blindfold.

It isn’t a very effective blindfold. It’s slipped down twice already. You don’t want to tie the hand-wraps too tight around his wrists either, so his hands have also managed to free themselves, instantly making a dive towards his cock. You put a stop to that pretty quick, wrestling them back towards the frame and tying them down in place.

“C’mon man, damn, this is gonna kill me.”

You lean over and blow softly on the head of Mickey’s cock which is straight and tall and eager. You watch, fascinated, as a single bead of precum starts to gather on the tip of it, twitching away. “What’s the magic word Mickey?”

“Fuck you I hope your fucking cock goes green and falls off!”

“None of those are the magic word.” You stick out your tongue and poke the shaft of it gently while Mickey’s poor, forlorn, desperate cock bounces in front of your face, his hips jerking to try and get something on it.

“It’s been fucking hours man, j-just … a-ahh…”

Your finger slides slow and soft over the underside of his balls, “Only one hour.”

“Fuuuuuck …” he’s practically sobbing now. What you wouldn’t give for a fully stocked sex dungeon, or even a damn buttplug would do it. Instead there’s a fat marker pen wrapped in a condom half sticking out of Mickey’s ass. It’s not massively long, but it’s certainly chunky and wide. Your finger moves back to slide around the stretched rim of his ass, dragging a whole load more choked desperate sounds out of him.

“I-I c-can’t, fuck, I can’t…”

“Shhh … yes you can Mickey…” you flick at the end of the marker pen, wriggling it around a little, then giving it a gentle twist. Mickey’s arse shoots upwards off the bed and he almost rips the bindings off his ankle.

“I _can’t,_ fuck _you_ …”

“Magic word?”

“Fuck off!”

You open your mouth and breath warm air all over the stretched aching cock, making sure not to touch it with a single part of your mouth. Mickey squeals and wriggles and you start to get a bit worried he might actually dislocate his wrist. Grabbing the end of the marker pen you give it a few jabs inside him. Mickey sobs, spasms, and then to the complete surprise of both of you his balls draw back, cock twitches upwards, and a desperate stream of cum shoots explosively out and all over your face.

“Fuck!” You yelp, not best pleased at the unexpected facial. Mickey drops back to the bed, panting weakly. Reaching up you pull the blindfold off his face to see his eyes rolled all the way back. You wipe your face on the teatowel, then set about undoing the ties. By the time you’re finished, Mickey is sitting up, rubbing at his wrists and looking faintly smug. “Weren’t expecting that, were you?”

“You ever done that before?” You demand, tugging the marker pen out of his arse a little harder than necessary just to hear him cry out again.

“A-ahh! W-what cum without touching? Yeah. Once. I was being pounded out from behind at the time though, not just tied to a bed going out of my mind.”

“Could’ve warned me.” You grumble, then sit onto the bed, picking up his ankles and pushing them up towards his backside. Mickey frowns.

“What are you doing?”

You give him an evil grin, “Well I didn’t cum yet, did I?”

Mickey whimpers as you pull his legs up further, your cock hard and poking at the sore stretched entrance to his ass. “Y-you can’t…”

“You gonna say that magic word?”

Mickey flips you off.

“Well it’s not my fault you came too early…” You grin, hands clamping down on his legs to hold him into place. “Open up.”

Mickey’s fingers scrabble weakly against the blankets, panting hard as your cock slides home. “A-ahh just … fuck … go slow … it’s too – ahhh…”

“I’m not going slow.” You murmur into his ear.

Mickey gives another sob. Between you, you feel his poor exhausted cock start to twitch again.


	4. Spoiling for a fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: belting, fighting, struggle fighting in a sexual manner, references to heterosexual relationships.

“Do you miss her?” Mickey asks one day, out of the blue.

“Hmm?” You answer, midway through a sandwich and not really paying attention.

“Josefina. Your wife. Do you miss fucking her.”

Even for Mickey, that’s surprisingly direct. Carefully you put the sandwich down, wondering where this is going. You know Mickey gets introspective sometimes, or homesick. He spent his whole life with a big noisy family in a cold windy city. No wonder he sometimes feels lost out here. “Do you mean do I miss fucking Josefina, or do I miss fucking women?”

“Either.” Mickey pulls a face. “Both I guess.”

“Do you miss your wife?” You ask curiously, wondering if that's what's bothering him. Clearly not because Mickey’s eyes widen in surprise and shock.

“Hell no. Miss the kid sometimes. I hope he’s alright, he was a good kid. Probably fucked though, I mean I was fucked but he’s even more fucked. His mum’s a whore, his dad’s a fugitive, his grandad’s an evil fucker locked in prison.” Mickey sighs, then gives a shrug. “Don’t miss her though.”

“Don’t miss fucking her?”

Mickey’s face shuts down. “No.”

It’s probably better not to ask. You hope that’s the end of the conversation but Mickey still seems to want to keep going, picking at it like a healing stitch. “So how about you, you miss fucking women?”

“Why would I?”

“Well maybe because you don’t do it anymore? Jesus Christ answer the fucking question OK?”

So it’s going to be one of _those_ days. Mickey’s spoiling for a fight and you’re not sure why. “Yes, I miss my wife. I miss fucking her. I miss waking up next to her. I miss the smell of her hair, and the curves of her body. I missed her when she ran away, so badly I thought I’d die, and then one day I met this dumb American boy with a gorgeous ass who was hiding in Luis’s basement and now I don’t miss her so much.”

Mickey scowls and twists away. “If she turned up at the front door tomorrow, what would you do?”

You aren’t in the mood for this kind of game. “If Ian Galagher turned up at the door tomorrow, what would _you_ do?”

Sometimes it doesn’t take much to get to Mickey. Usually the name ‘Ian Galagher’ will do it. He lunges at you like a spitting little wildcat and tackles you down. Mickey’s good at threatening, and pretty good at hitting, but he’s no good at fighting and pretty soon you have him pinned down to the floor with a throbbing ache in your jaw where he managed to land a fist.

“Get the fuck off me!” Mickey yelps, body squirming underneath you. You roll him over, batting his hands out the way and pinning them down above his head as you press his face into the floor. His protests get a lot more muffled and a lot less protesting as you kick his legs apart.

“This what you want?” You demand, a bit annoyed that he’s managed to get to you so much. You know the biggest punishment you could give right now would be to simply walk away and leave him here lying on the floor but you aren’t that cruel.

His legs twitch and kick out. “Fucking bully.”

“I’m serious Mickey, you want this or don’t you?”

He falls still. You stay where you are, sat on top of him with your hands still pinning his. He gives a wriggle to see if he can get free, and when he can’t he gives a little sulky, “Yes. I want it.”

You yank his jeans down with one hand then in a sudden moment of inspiration you tug his belt out of the loops. The sound of it makes his body twitch and shudder even more.

“Hands behind your head.” You say, but gently. Mickey hesitates for a moment then does as you ask, face-down on the floor with his hands interlacing behind his head. Slowly you stand up, letting the end of his belt trail over the strip of skin that marks his ass.

You wonder how long he’s been wanting this. You wonder why he can never just _ask_ , just say, nice and casual, that he feels like a pretty hard whipping right now and would be grateful if you could do it. But no he always has to rile you up, remind you that you have a beautiful wife who left you, and a beautiful boy who will never stay with you.

You raise the belt and snap it down. The strangled little cry that comes out of Mickey sounds like beauty and darkness, all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It amuses me far too much that anyone who sees Mickey topless after his prison stint will assume his ex's name is spelled 'Ian Galagher' so I am gonna keep running with that :p


	5. Lazy Sunday Afternoon

Even when he's fighting or angry you think there's something wonderfully soft about Mickey's body. His skin just feels soft, despite the roughness life has put him through, with curves around his elbows and knees instead of angles and hard edges. There's a soft plumpness about him, not fat or extra size, just a little layer of cushioning that seems to extend around his whole frame.

It means that when Mickey's exhausted, when he's strung out and emptied, beaten to orgasm and orgasmed to death, he  _melts_ right into the bed. The softness of his limbs increases tenfold to make them limp and floppy, his fingers loosen their grip on the sheets and he turns into a solid heavy lump, utterly unmovable. The angry red of his ass and upper thighs is the only part of his body that seems to exert any energy, flaming away.

Slowly, you wrap an arm around him. He never resists like this. You sometimes wonder if that's why he likes this sort of thing, so that he gets to stop resisting. You gently manipulate his limbs and body to move his head into your lap, stroking his hair while he whimpers weakly.

"You OK?" You murmur. You feel pretty strung out yourself, but you can't permit yourself to relax for a second, not when you've done all this to Mickey.

There's silence for a long while, so long you start to wonder whether maybe he's just going to sleep, and then one hand lifts weakly to flip a middle finger at you.

He's OK.

You keep stroking his hair, then move to lay down next to him. His hands cling to you desperately, craving human contact. You gently lay a hand on the heated red of his backside and hear his breath hiss.

"You are fucking wonderful." You whisper. You're pretty sure he doesn't believe you, but you don't care. It's true. He doesn't answer but his hands twist a little tighter into your skin. Carefully you begin to stroke his ass, marvelling at the sheer amount of heat coming out of it.

"I treat you so badly...." you say, generations of Catholic guilt bearing down on you. Mickey gives a weak little chuckle into your ear.

"Yeah." His voice sounds groggy, his throat rasping. "You do."

"Poor little American Boy."

"Poor l'il me." Mickey flops one arm over your body, heavy and pale. "Water. Fuck. My ass feels raw."

You reach back to the floor and pick up the chipped cup half full of water. You've started leaving it beside the bed fairly regularly now, because Mickey usually needs a drink after a particularly rough session. Getting it into him is less simple, because he won't sit up or move his head to a more convenient angle, and you both end up damp and giggling by the time he finally manages to get a sip of it into his mouth.

You go back to stroking his hair, laying next to him in comfortable silence. The room is warm and light, the air still, your body aching and stretched. You feel suddenly like a very lucky man, here in bed with a pliant happy lover and both of you coming down from a mad sexual high.

Mickey gives a sigh from next to you, coming back up from whatever blissed out state he's been existing in so far. "So that was a slipper, huh?"

"Yep. Leather sole."

Mickey gives a groan, "Well I'm gonna fucking hide that one."

You grin. You know he won't.


	6. Sleeping beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME KIDS
> 
> This chapter pushes the border of 'dub-con' about as far as it goes. Warnings for initiating sex with someone sleeping, unwashed sex, and hints of rape-play.
> 
> And in case it needs saying again, this is a work of fiction. In real life you should not stick any kind of dick into anyone who isn't conscious. It is both illegal and immoral.

Mickey is the dirtiest person you’ve ever been with, and not in the good way. If you didn’t know better you’d put it down to the difference between living with a man instead of a woman – the beer bottles left in the lounge, the unmade bed, the heap of greasy washing up in the kitchen. Except you know that’s not true because you’ve been with men, especially American men, who’ve practically stopped to shower and clean the bedroom midway through sex. It’s not men, it’s just Mickey.

Mickey rarely bothers to clean himself up before sex, and half the time doesn’t even bother afterwards. Which means you’ve woken up today in a sticky puddle of cum, lube, and you don’t even want to think about what else. Mickey’s still asleep, lying in an untroubled heap on the mess he’s made of your bed and you’re rather tempted to wake him up and spank him for it.

Your next thought is that you needn’t even wake him, his ass is right _there_ and it would serve him right to get woken up with a good smack.

The _next_ thought is that Mickey’s ass isn’t just there, it’s also still lubed up and open, and there’s probably no need to wake him up at _all_.

You hesitate. This is probably a line that shouldn’t be crossed, one of the many you and Mickey have vaulted over since he moved in. Still, if he doesn’t like it he can always roll over and thump you in the mouth, like he did that one time you tried ordering him to call you ‘Daddy’. Almost knocked a tooth loose with that. Your conscience gives a bit of a squirm, as you start stroking your dick and lining it up, but then your conscience is as horny as the rest of you this time in the morning. Especially with a soft, naked and blissfully unaware Mickey all there and waiting.

You gently stroke the hair away from his face, just to give him a bit of a chance, a bit of a warning. Then you grab the side of his ass with one hand, hold it open, and poke your dick forward into the waiting entrance.

The first thing that happens is a sleepy sort of groan, then Mickey’s leg kicks and his ass tenses right up. That’s an unexpected benefit, and you quickly shove yourself forward, wanting to take advantage of it before Mickey works out what’s happening and relaxes. Mickey gives a yelp, his legs start kicking even more frantically, and you quickly roll over on top of him, burying him face down in the blankets as your dick forces itself into his trembling ass.

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!” Mickey’s cries are a little muffled by the pillow, and you pull your hips back a bit then surge forwards, groaning as you bottom out all the way. “Fucking – can’t you wait till I wake up at least!”

You put two hands on his head, holding him still as your hips start to pump away. His body is loose and heavy with sleep, his ass still tight with confusion. It feels fantastic. “You fall asleep with your ass still lubed what do you think is going to happen?”

“Owww…” Mickey groans, then gives a weak laugh as your hand moves to dig into his shoulder, holding him down, “Ohh, we’re in that kind of mood, huh?”

You don’t dignify that with an answer. You really don’t want to think too much about the things you like doing with Mickey, and the feeling between the two of you is mutual. Mickey doesn’t need to angst about why he enjoys being held down and hurt, and you don’t need to question why you like fucking cute soft American boys while they’re unconscious. It’s probably very unhealthy, but you both enjoy it too much to stop.

Mickey’s eyebrows raise up a little, “Want me to struggle?”

“Fuck you.”

“That a yes?”

“Yes.”

Mickey groans again then kicks out his legs, body squirming as you hold it down harder, using your hips and cock to pin him into place on the bed. You hold out for as long as you can, thrusting until you hear a genuine edge of pain in the sounds he makes, then pull out and spray all over the back of his head.

“A-ahh, you _shit_ …” Mickey whimpers, and you grin.

“Now you’ll have to take a shower.”

You do enjoy how he looks like this, his asshole sore and swollen, his hair covered in cum, his body reddened where your hands have held. But there are other ways you like watching him as well. Gently, you roll him over, then slide down his body and clamp your lips around his cock. It’s an apology suck for waking him so rudely, and a thank you suck for the way he understands you so well.

When Mickey arches off the bed and wails in desperate pleasure you think you might just about be forgiven.


	7. My Love Is In America (and got his dumb ass sent to prison)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee bit of dubious consent on the spanking in this one, and some spoilers for the latest plot developments in season 9.  
> Also rimming.

You don’t really know what Mickey gets up to during the day while you’re at work. Sometimes he comes home with money, sometimes with food, sometimes just with bruises and a foul temper. Today he comes home jittery, chewing at his lip with his fingers tapping incessantly against the table-top until you finally ask, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Fucking nothing, OK?”

Not that you expected anything different. You come up behind him and give him a slap on the ass in case that helps and he scowls and twists away.

“Fuck you, I said it’s nothing.”

His lip chews up under his teeth again and you reach forward with a thumb to gently nudge it free. Mickey sighs, and slumps a little.

“Should never google your ex, yeah?”

And now you know what this is about, “Ian Galagher?”

“No the fucking milkman, yeah it’s Ian Galagher.”

“What’s he done?” Mickey’s teeth snap out at your thumb and you smile, cupping his face instead to give him something to lean into. He likes that, especially when he’s all wound up about the past.

“A bunch of dumb shit is what he’s done. I bet he’s not taking his meds. He needs someone to look after him, that’s the problem he thinks he doesn’t and then he just goes right off the fucking–“ Mickey stops and groans, falling forward to knock his head against your shoulder, “He’s gonna get sent to prison.”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Mickey’s view of his ex is undeniably sugar-coated; you seriously doubt Ian Galagher is a 9-inch packing superhuman sex god who lights the world with kindness and smiles, but you’d sort of assumed he was at least a fairly level guy. You remember Mickey saying he had some kind of mental problem and give a frown, “What did he go axe-crazy and murder a bunch of guys?”

“What? No.” Mickey scowls and punches your shoulder. “He just did a bunch of dumb shit.”

Your hands wonder down to his ass, patting it gently and then firmly, just to test the waters. Sometimes in this mood Mickey wants a bit of pain, “Do you need a–“

His eyes look up at you, dark and uncertain and lost. It tugs at you a bit because you honestly don’t know how you feel about _this_ Mickey. Mickey as the crazy American gangster boy you can cope with, the mad little slut you rather like, and the bored dumb housemate you’ve grown fond of. This is something else, this is a damaged and ruined kid with a lot of pain in his life, looking for strength and stability to build himself around.

You know there’s no way in hell you can give him that. You wonder if maybe that’s what he thought he’d found with Ian Galagher.

“I just wanna watch a film or something.” Mickey mutters at the floor.

You fire up the laptop and find something you managed to download a while ago. An action movie, full of explosions and guns and easy simple things like that. No issues, no feelings, no ex-lovers in prison. Mickey sprawls out on the worn sofa, picking at a bit of the stuffing while you sit next to him with a packet of crisps.

About halfway through the film, as a warehouse explodes and three men unconvincingly fly out of the wreckage, Mickey says, “It’s just, you know, he’s gonna do something stupid. He won’t even _think_ about it. He’ll proposition some guy, or he’ll look over the wrong dude.”

There’s silence for a little while more and then Mickey swings his legs into your lap and grabs at the crisps. You let them go and watch Mickey tip the last of them into his mouth before spraying half of them out as he snaps, “He has such a _shit taste_ in men. Un-fucking-believable. I was like the best boyfriend he ever had and that is saying a hell of a lot, even I know that. He’ll stop taking his meds, he’ll do something dumb, and he’s gonna get jumped and he won’t even be able to run away because he’ll be in fucking prison.”

You rub over the pale soft skin of Mickey's legs, feeling the downy hair catch under your palm. “Didn’t he used to be in the army? He should be big, like Captain America.”

Mickey scoffs and relaxes a bit, toes poking into your stomach. “Captain America my ass.”

You grab his ankles and glance at his face to check what sort of mood he’s in. You see a little answering smirk in return which is all the encouragement you need to bend his ankles forward up to his head. Mickey leans back and obligingly puts his hands behind his knees to keep them in place while you peel his jeans out the way.

“What was that about your ass?”

“Bite me.”

You bite it, digging your teeth in and worrying the skin while he yelps and kicks his legs. “Fuck, man!”

“You want a spanking?”

“No, I want you to eat it.” Mickey shoots back. It’s half a challenge and half a joke, so he can withdraw it if you take it the wrong way. That’s what he did the last time he asked you to eat him out, when you refused point blank. This time you hesitate, looking down at Mickey’s ass and gently poking the skin of it. More than anything, you want to tie his hands to his knees and beat that tempting exposed skin until it’s a solid rectangle of burning red. It seems like today though, Mickey’s in the mood to call the shots.

“You gonna fucking do it?” Mickey’s hand taps at his backside impatiently, but still you hesitate. This isn’t something you’ve done with a man before, and it’s a little close to something you’re not sure you even want to do. Fucking a guy is one thing, but eating out an ass feels a little more submissive and degrading than what you’re used to. Mickey peeks at you from between his legs, raising an eyebrow questioningly, “Dude, make your mind up so I can watch this movie OK?”

Brat. “Can I spank you after?”

Mickey’s laugh sounds a little too bitter to be fully happy. “You can do what you like after, I’m not going to be in any position to stop you.”

On the screen behind you a man holding two guns shoots them both with unfeasible accuracy into the side of a Toyota Hiace. You take a deep breath, mutter a short prayer, and then dive down into his ass, trying very hard not to think about what you’re doing.

Mickey cums screaming out Ian’s name, his nails digging into the back of his legs, his face flushed and gasping. You spank him until the very end of the credits have rolled past the screen and his face is wet with tears.


	8. Leaving at midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sex in this one - just that I realised I could finish the story AND make it canon. All wrapped up neat into a story now, which isn't bad for something that started off as an excuse just to write a lot of smut. Enjoy!

It’s the crash from the window that wakes you, jerking you out of sleep in a hazy confused mess. Before you even think you’ve got the bat by the bed raised, your fingers wrapped around the neck of what, as you focus and reengage with the world, is nothing more than a shocked and surprised looking Mickey Milkovitch.

“What the hell are you doing?” You snap at him.

There’s a moment of awkward silence and then Mickey’s eyes drop down. “Leaving.”

“Why are you leaving…” you ask, as if you didn't know. He’s been going to leave ever since he started reading up about his ex, and you've been trying to ignore it in the desperate hope that it wouldn't happen. Now it's happening. Your beautiful, awkward, soft, hot, American boy is leaving, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Why are you leaving out the window?” You clarify. Your hand is still wrapped around his neck but not squeezing any more, just resting comfortably.

“I’m sneaking away, man.”

You blink slowly, the last of the sleep fading out of your mind. “You didn’t think to sneak out of the door?”

There’s another moment of silence as the idea works its way through Mickey’s mind and then he scowls. “Ah, fuck off. I’m just leaving, OK? Didn’t want any awkward goodbyes.”

You’re very tempted to back him up against the wall, then throw him down on the bed and fuck him. But if you do that, you might convince him to stay, and you know he’d regret and resent every moment of it for the rest of his life.

Mickey Milkovitch belongs with his ex. With Ian Galagher.

You sigh and step backwards, gesturing at the open window and the now overturned little rickety table next to it. “Fine. Go.”

Mickey’s eyes flicker over yours. You can tell he’s waiting uncertainly to see if there’s anything more. He’s spent a lifetime being dismissed and ignored, and you feel like there’s some part of him that wants you to beg him to stay, just so he can feel that momentary high of being wanted. You won’t though, you’ve got some pride left.

“What are you going to do?” You ask instead, swinging the bat behind your head and resting it over the back of your shoulders. Mickey’s eyes follow it and you imagine, just for a moment, using it. Straight into his gut, across the back of his head, oh yes you don’t dare leave me American Boy or you’ll be hurting for it.  
Then, to your great surprise, Mickey steps forward and kisses you.

It’s such a surprise, such a rush. The feeling of his lips against yours, the brief rub of unshaved stubble, the sudden smell that you know you’ll miss desperately and frantically once he leaves. He breaks away and murmurs, “Are you mixed up in any of that stuff Luis is involved in?”

“No.” You lie.

He gives a half shrug and a half smile, one lip quirking up. “Good.”

“Where are you going to go?” You ask.

“Prison.”

You snort. “Dumbass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He turns away, pushing the widow up and swinging up to sit on the ledge. “Thanks man, s’been … an interesting few months.”

You raise a hand to wave and he drops down and away. You’re still not sure why he didn’t use the door. It seems fitting though, a bizarre night-time flight as your cute American boy exits your life forever.

You just hope Ian Galagher is grateful.


End file.
